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thetantiger · 6 months ago

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Dodging and Frostweaving

Word count: 1,192

Characters: Cryagosa (she/her), Dewdrop (she/they)

Somebody please help them, they're so awkward.

Cryagosa looked at her surroundings. What was once a barren ice cave of freezing solitude was now a proper dragon’s den, thanks to the inspiration struck by that tauren and goblin she’d encountered in Orgrimmar. She put her claws on her hips and marveled at the bright Lichfire braziers, the mound of lavish cushions and beddings dyed navy and gold at the back of the cavern, the beautiful frostweave curtains flowing in the slight breeze from Icecrown outside and the impressive stash of gems, trinkets and precious jewels she was able to scavenge from the remains of her old den. It had only took a little help from a geomancer; Obsydia was an incredibly easy dragon to persuade, for the price of a few choice crystals from Crya’s old stash.

The Frostwyrm grinned at the brilliantly decorated den before her. Oh, yeah. Prime place for a good fight. Dewdrop will love this.

She heard a rustle at the front of the cave and broke into a grin. She looked over her shoulder, seeing the faerie dracthyr she’d been waiting for. “Ah! Dewdrop. There you are. Do you like what I’ve done with the place?”

Dewdrop, in their usual routine, started out aggressive. It was a comfort to Crya, honestly. “You’re not outside raising Frostwyrms. What are you planning, Cryagosa?”

“You see, Dew,” Crya began, turning around and looking at them, her arms folded neatly behind her back underneath her wings. “I have since given up the attempt to raise Frostwyrms.”

She conveniently left out that this was solely for moral reasons; with the recent campaign to take care of some of the Residuum, Crya and the friend group of Death Knights she was connected to began realizing their distaste for the excessive authoritarianism of the Ebon Blade, and had begun focusing on their living selves. Cryagosa, as a soul that had died about ten thousand years ago when Neltharion made an example of the Blue Dragonflight during the War of the Ancients, was quite disconnected from her old self and honestly didn’t remember much of it other than how the impact of the Dragon Soul’s energy felt in her chest. What she did know, however, is that she was going to be left behind if she could not get a grasp on herself morally, just as the vrykul Knight Sjorkan almost was when he chose the Blade over them--and then quickly regretted it and chose to disobey orders to save their asses instead. However, she needed her and Dewdrop to continue this performative rivalry, this almost silly and theatrical mock-hatred of one another. Their combat was riveting; Dewdrop was an impressive opponent for such a small dragonkin. It fueled her. It ignited her.

“Instead, I have..” Crya broke into a grin, rubbing her hands together as she made her grand announcement. “..kicked over a public trash can, intentionally! And I didn’t clean it up!”

…

…It was silent for a moment.

Dewdrop looked around with large, bug-like eyes. “What? What is all this?”

“Oh, this?” Crya asked, grabbing the end of a curtain and rubbing the fabric between her claws curiously. “I was told I should decorate. Do you like it? Imagine all the things we can destroy in here fighting each other.”

Dewdrop blinked at her, the fuzzy antennae of their eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “I don’t think I understand. You’re giving up raising Frostwyrms?”

Cryagosa sort of shrugged nonchalantly, leaning her head back and forth. “I.. er.. became bored with it.”

“And kicking over public trash cans is less boring?”

“It makes me feel less bad.”

Dewdrop gasped at her, starting to form a slight smile. “Crya! You’re forming a moral compass.”

Cryagosa scowled and immediately turned away from them, stomping further into the cave with a dismissive wave at the dracthyr. “Nonsense,” she hissed, aware of the sound of Dewdrop’s talons on the cold floor of the cave as they followed her. “I am just-.. trying to find less inconvenient ways of being evil.”

“Sure, that’s what it is,” Dewdrop replied sarcastically, the amusement audible in their voice. “Alright, fine, I’ll bite.”

“Good!” Crya exclaimed. “You use only your claws too often.”

Dew sighed. “Well what in here were you planning to destroy? This all looks pretty expensive.”

“Well I’m delighted you asked!” Cryagosa whipped back around, immediately reaching for Dewdrop’s shoulders and spinning them towards the wall. Dew made a small noise of alarm--not dissimilar to a peep--and sort of threw them into the curtain. She made sure to be a little gentle at least for this, as Dewdrop hadn’t struck her yet--she always let Dewdrop strike first, it was more fun that way--and quickly realized the dracthyr’s back might hit the cave wall a little too hard for her liking so she grabbed them again to ensure that didn’t happen.

Dewdrop’s horns were slightly eclipsed by the frostweave of the long curtain but that was about it. The cloth barely dipped over their forehead, and their hands sort of planted against the wall, deep purple eyes wide and staring at her.

“Well, if I threw you with a little bit more effort, you could get completely tangled up in this thing,” Crya said, her talons still on Dewdrop’s shoulders. “You would tear at it, and then maybe throw me into that pile of gold over there, and-”

…

Something was wrong.

Crya examined them carefully. As a being afflicted with the same Shadowfrost element that Frost and James were, big sources of heat were easily detectable for her if close enough. And by the Aspects, they were close enough. Crya only just now realized how this might look, with Dewdrop in her den and the whole place decorated so extravagantly and her claws on their shoulders against the wall and suddenly she felt the ice within her spike. She looked at Dewdrop, vibrant blood rushing to their face and reddening the light blue hue of their base scales. Dewdrop simply stared back at her and didn’t say anything, their bug-like eyes endless pits of violet. They didn’t exactly look bad, pressed against the frostweave cloth, their mouth slightly agape in startlement and their set of razor teeth barely visible. She could’ve sworn she saw Dewdrop move, saw their head tilt, saw them lean in, saw their eyes flutter. She could’ve sworn she leaned in, too.

“I HAVE TO GO,” Cryagosa said much louder than she intended as she pulled away at the last possible second. She’d never felt such intense cold emitting from the icy core in her chest before. This was something different and she most certainly was not having it. Dewdrop paused, eyes widening again, and didn’t respond. “I- I have to run some errands.” She very consciously removed her claws from the dracthyr’s shoulders and started literally sprinting for the exit.

“Wait! Crya, what are you-”

“Bye!” She didn’t even wait for Dewdrop to finish a sentence. She took off with a strong beat of her wings, and soared towards the Borean Tundra, grasping at her own muzzle with sheer embarrassment and hoping maybe one of her friends could explain this away for her.

#world of warcraft #wow oc #shipping #queer #lgbtq #writing #oc writing #don't question whether or not orgrimmar actually has public trash cans okay #just read about the sapphic girlfailure

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late-to-the-fandom · 2 years ago

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Something's afoot in Revendreth, and the Dark Prince Renathal is determined to discover what. Is it the rumoured rebellion, the Master of the realm himself, or his mysterious mortal guest? Read on Ao3 here.

The moment the Dark Prince opened his eyes he knew something was terribly wrong, and he lay in bed for several long, tense moments trying to decide what it was.

A wary glance to either side of his bed confirmed he was alone. The velvet bed curtains draped above and around him hung as dark and still as the lid of a coffin. No moving air disturbed the heavy cloth; nothing unexpected poked its head around the sides. Nevertheless, Renathal was convinced something about the bed was not right.

Or… he reconsidered, blinking an unusual crust of sleep from his eyes… perhaps it was the bed chamber itself… could someone have entered and stolen something while he slept?

Propping himself up on an elbow, Renathal eyed his room suspiciously, but a quick sweep of the tidy chamber was enough to convince him nothing had been moved, or even touched. His clothes and armor hung dutifully on their forms, waiting to be donned. His medallion rested on its velvet-lined stand atop the mirrored chiffonier. Each item of purposeless sentiment arranged just so on the mantlepiece, and the rarely-used chairs in front of it, were all in exactly the same positions they had been assigned for eternity. Or at least since he had last redecorated, in...

... when had that been?

A dull ache grew behind Renathal’s eyes as he prodded at his memory. He sat up straighter, rubbing fiercely at his temple and swallowing an abrupt upswell of nausea, the sort that typically accompanied a large amount of anima wine. Had he been drinking? Uncharacteristic for him, even before the drought made such things a luxury, but it was the only way he could account for this inexplicable malaise.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his pounding head to concentrate on the comforting sounds of the realm around him: the howl of wind outside Darkwall Tower, his familiar, eons-old lullaby; the distant clatter of dishes and the calls of his dredger servants in the kitchens far below; and, beyond that, shrieks of terror, screams for mercy, the lament of a thousand anguished souls. All usual and above board. Nothing whatsoever to be concerned about.

With a groan, Renathal threw back the coverlet and swung his silk-clad legs over the side, then paused, his body reluctant to abandon the relative safety of the bed. In spite of everything his primary senses were telling him, an ominous warning still lurked underneath. There was something indefinably wrong about how he had woken up today. But, after another critical survey of the room failed to locate anything untoward, and beginning to feel ridiculous, he shook his head, winced at the pain, and forced his feet to meet the Tazavesh rug.

A quick test of his legs, a rotation of his arms, assured Renathal everything - except his brain - was in perfect working order. He headed first for the chiffonier, confirmed nothing on it had been altered, then secured his medallion around his neck and glanced in the red-tinted mirror. His reflection looked uneasy, which he supposed made sense; and distinctly thinner, which did not. The drought taking its toll on him at last, he supposed, though it was strange he had not noticed it before.

Dismissing the unsatisfactory image, Renathal turned toward his waiting clothes. He dressed quickly; foregoing his armor which, without magic, would require the assistance of dredgers to properly position and he did not have the patience to be waited upon today. The urge to be free of his bed chamber nagged at him like a physical hunger, demanding to be sated, as if by leaving the room behind he might escape the indescribably off feeling.

Even so, he curtailed the instinct to wend himself away through the shadows to reach the ground floor of the tower. Anima conservation was now the primary rule of the realm. That, at least, he knew for certain. He made the journey by foot instead, quitting the room the very instant he was properly attired and bustling toward the winding staircase. He did not even glide, telling himself that, too, was a waste of precious resources, but in fact taking comfort in the physical sensation of his boots hitting each well-worn step.

As he walked, he made a survey of each wall, hall, and landing, inspecting every gilt-framed picture and nodding at the doors, like old friends, as he passed - the formal guest room, the library, his private study, another wing of guest rooms, the ball room, the music room, the lunarium. His bare fingers trailed along the stone walls of the staircase as he made his descent, and he closed his eyes, allowing instinct and eons of muscle memory to guide him down the central artery of his tower home.

When at last he reached the ground floor, Renathal opened his eyes. He spared a quick glance for the grandfather clock he kept predominately for aesthetics, looked away, then looked back, this time with a more critical eye. Its ornate face met his gaze solemnly from its vigil at the bottom of the staircase, a position Renathal had chosen specifically so its chime would echo against the stone and be heard on every floor. Only now, squinting at it, he realised it was slightly off-center. He approached the heavy piece, inspecting it carefully. But there could be no doubt. It was several inches from the place it should have been. When had that happened?

Renathal continued to stare for what the clock’s impassively ticking hands told him were two full minutes. It was a strange, meaningless little mystery, and something he would likely not have noticed were it not for the now infuriating sense of imbalance pervading this whole morning.

He ripped his gaze away and turned. His private, informal dining room was to his left. Even now, Breakfist would be on his way there via the servants' entrance to bring his master some light repast, but the something Renathal could not name was building to a crescendo inside him, and, unable to bear its unintelligible warning any longer, he bypassed his breakfast and fled the tower entirely.

The heavy thud of the carved front doors slamming shut behind him momentarily hid the sounds of Renathal’s desperate panting. He threw a wild, unsettled gaze over the grounds he knew so intimately he could have walked to every landmark blindfolded. The servants' quarters, the lifthouse, Vrednic’s bungalow - Renathal could hear his gargon’s sleepy snuffles from here. He sucked in air he did not need through his nose and tried to let the affectation soothe the frantic and equally unnecessary beating of his heart. Everything was exactly where it should be.

And yet…

Even as Renathal’s brain acknowledged each detail was correct, it simultaneously insisted something about the courtyard was wrong. It was as if his eyes had expected to see a change. But what? And how? And why? The modest grounds that encompassed his high tower home had stood like this since they were built, all those uncountable eons ago. And nothing substantial ever changed in Revendreth - that was the tragedy of Renathal's existence.

Perhaps, he thought bemusedly, his boredom had finally festered, erroneously persuading his own senses existence ought to be different. Renathal put out a hand to the solid stone wall of his front entryway to steady himself and shook his head from side to side, as if clearing it of encroaching madness. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, one that rattled his oddly thinned ribcage. It was time to think through next, logical steps. What did one do when faced with something unfamiliar? When one's very person became unwell?

Renathal's eyes snapped open, his head turned instinctively to the right, and his feet began the walk to the Bridge of Paramountcy before his brain had processed where they were taking him. It caught up as he strode on, a sense of rightness and purpose reasserting itself with every step closer to Nathria he took. He kept his eyes fixed on the castle's familiar, unchanging outline, drawing comfort from the surety that a solution waited within.

There was no question his Sire could not answer; no ailment he could not cure, and some of the tension eased from Renathal's shoulders at the mere anticipation.

Denathrius would know what to do.

"Ah, Renathal! Come in, come in!" Denathrius greeted him jovially, and Renathal stepped into the Sire's private chambers with only the mildest trepidation.

If memory served - which it was admittedly not today - his Master had lately been edgy and displeased. This was not unusual. Denathrius often went through periods of melancholy brooding, and it was Renathal's unofficial and self-appointed task to pull his Master from them. He was well-acquainted with the subtle signs of the Sire’s impending gloom, as well as with the more overt and dangerous symptoms of a full-blown bout of divine depression. But today, Renathal detected no hint of either.

Denathrius was smiling, his most beautiful, beatific smile, as he watched Renathal’s practiced eyes subtly inspect his private room. He remained entirely calm and unperturbed, even as Renathal's gaze slid uncomfortably about the enormous chamber. Because even here, in this most sacred and eternal of spaces, there was something off he could not understand. Something was missing. Something important. Something Renathal knew he should know. The only thing keeping him from tearing at his hair in mad frustration was that benevolent smile and the solid, steady figure who possessed it.

If his Master was not worried, then there was no reason for Renathal to be either, whatever his senses insisted.

"You were expecting me?" he asked, eyeing the smaller seat arranged across from Denathrius’ oversized chair and the tea table positioned between the two. Neither was a permanent fixture; Denathrius rarely received visitors here. And although Renathal was the occasional exception, he had not sent anyone ahead to herald his impromptu arrival.

"I had a feeling you would seek me out today," said Denathrius mysteriously, humour thrumming behind each word as if he were trying to contain a great joke. He gestured at Renathal to sit, and, obediently, Renathal sat. "And, if you will indulge me, I believe I can guess why you have."

"Of course."

Renathal did not understand the Sire’s high humour any more than his own unease, but he had the impression everything was about to be explained, and his lips twitched in anticipation of answers.

"You are here," said Denathrius lazily, crossing his long legs in front of him, "because you sensed something different in Revendreth when you awoke today. A minute shift in the fabric of the realm. You could feel it, but could not quite put your finger on the cause."

He leaned back, chuckling at Renathal's slack-jawed stare. And once Renathal had recovered from the shock of having his own intimate feelings described to him, he joined his Master, his own laugh more like an exultation. The unsettling cloud that had hovered over Renathal all morning was gradually dissipating, he could feel it; and the instinct to kneel at his Master’s feet, to worship, overwhelmed him.

Of course Denathrius knew. His Father understood him better than he understood himself. Nothing was secret from the Sire, a fact that was often a source of frustration to his Firstborn, but which now filled him with holy elation.

"You have guessed it entirely," he admitted, and Denathrius, still chuckling, nodded wisely.

"Yes, I thought it would be you who sensed it, Renathal. After myself, you are the most in tune with the rhythm of Revendreth. Even the slightest of disturbances could not escape your notice. Well done."

Denathrius’ mouth lingered lovingly over every syllable, as if he derived as much pleasure from saying the words as Renathal did from hearing them.

"It was merely a whim," he replied, as humbly as he could manage, his Master's praise better than an entire font of anima for bolstering his spirits. "I did have the distinct impression something was different, but I could not identify what. Which is why I came to you for consultation."

Mirroring his Master, Renathal leaned back comfortably in the provided chair. For the first time since his rude awakening, he felt more like his relaxed, confident self. His stomach took this as its cue to politely remind him he did not know when he had last consumed anything, and he glanced at the little table waiting patiently between the chairs, wondering why it had not yet been laid.

As if sensing Renathal's thoughts, Denathrius flicked a casually imperious glance behind Renathal's chair and clapped his hands once. Renathal did not bother to turn. He knew the servants' entrance was hidden there, knew this was all the Master needed to do to draw the Venthyr waiting behind it forth to do his bidding. He waited for the soft click of the door and the staid, well-trained movements of whatever servant had earned the privilege of carrying in the Sire's tray.

Seconds crawled past. Several unnecessary heartbeats. But the room remained unexpectedly silent.

Curious, Renathal glanced at his still-smiling Master, then around the side of his high-backed chair. The hidden door, blended seamlessly into the tasteful paneling, remained defiantly shut. He checked his Master’s face again, eyes full of the obvious question, but Denathrius seemed in no way troubled.

"You felt a change, and correctly so," the Sire repeated as if nothing had happened since Renathal's last comment. "Though I doubt many other of my children will. Really, it is only a little thing, hardly worth noticing. But I suppose in Revendreth's interminable history, even a little change can go a long way."

He was musing now, stroking his well-defined chin, legs still stretched out in front of him, the very picture of ease. And Renathal was as familiar with this mood as the stormy, dissatisfied ones. The Sire was excessively pleased with himself about something.

"As you know," Denathrius continued into the persistent silence, "this drought has plagued us for several cycles now. So worrisome, so unusual, and so little information forthcoming from the Eternal City, but..." He waited, relishing his own dramatic pause. "We have, at last, received a new soul."

Renathal stopped half-listening for the sound of servants and gave his Master his undivided attention.

"Do you mean the drought has finally ended? Oribos has discovered its cause?"

"I am afraid not." Denathrius shook his head, arranging his face to appear grim and solemn, though something of that effervescent smile still lingered in his eyes. "Nor is this a soul we can harvest. No, we have been vouchsafed an unusual burden."

Renathal's brow furrowed as he admitted, "I am ... not sure I understand."

"Of course you do not.” Denathrius smiled again, fondly. “Such a thing has never occurred. It is..." he leant forward, closer to Renathal, red eyes glittering in the dim candlelight, "a brand new experience."

There was a long pause in which Renathal was positive his Master could feel the flame of excitement his words had kindled in his Firstborn. Behind him, at last, came the sound of the servants' door clattering noisily open, but Renathal’s eyes did not leave his Master, who leaned back again, his speech becoming abruptly forthright and business-like.

"I, of course, will be taking on the majority of this particular project. Which means I will rely on you, Renathal, even more than I do already. A greater portion of the responsibility of running the realm will be entrusted to you, for a time." He met Renathal's eagerly glowing eyes. "Assuming that meets with your approval?"

The long-nailed fingers of Renathal's hands twitched against the arms of the chair. All the day's confusion was driven away at the thought he had earned Denathrius' confidence, every fiber of his being alight with a pride he tried desperately to quell. His Master would smell the sin on him in an instant.

"Of course, Sire," said Renathal, dipping his head demurely. " I should be happy to take on any responsibility you see fit to bestow. Anything I might do to ease your own burden would be considered an honour."

Footsteps shuffled across the thick carpet. Renathal was aware of the tardy servant wandering into the corner of his vision, but his gaze remained focused on his Master.

Denathrius was grinning. His entire face was contorted in an open delight, the likes of which Renathal had rarely seen on the Sire’s flawless features. His red eyes wandered to the hovering servant then back to Renathal, grin widening. When he spoke again, his voice was soaked in satisfaction.

"Thank you, Renathal. I knew I could rely on you!”

Renathal thought he might levitate with the giddy pleasure this praise inspired, but a sudden series of tinny crashes broke the halcyon spell. The servant had dropped their tray hard onto the table, rattling cups and nearly toppling the decanter of the Master’s anima wine. After several concerning shudders, the decanter managed to steady itself, but not before drops of the crimson liquid flew from its open mouth and onto the table, the carpet, and the hem of Denathrius' robes.

The Dark Prince looked up, amber eyes impossibly wide. The Sire’s servants were the most highly trained in all Revendreth, and he had known more than one condemned to crypts for centuries for lesser domestic offenses. Even in his current genial mood, Renathal still expected Denathrius to vent rage as powerful as a blow on the criminally careless Venthyr.

Except the tall figure who stood behind the table was not Venthyr, and Renathal's jaw fell open for the second time since entering Denathrius' rooms.

"Ah, my dear, so good of you to finally join us," said Denathrius in his most convivial tones, ignoring the small dark stains blossoming on his robe’s sumptuous fabric. He sat up straighter, throwing an elegantly choreographed hand across the table at Renathal. “Allow me to introduce the firstborn of my realm, the Dark Prince of Revendreth, His Highness, Prince Renathal.

"Renathal -"

Denathrius extended his other hand toward the strange creature, whose skin appeared to emit a pale, lavender glow. He met Renathal’s eyes, his own dancing with undisguised mirth. And... something else Renathal recognised but did not understand. Triumph.

"Meet our guest: Elisewin of the Shal'Dorei."

Read Chapter 2: The Lay of the Land | Visit the Masterpost

If you enjoyed this story, I would love to hear it 💜

#renathal x maw walker #renathal fan fiction #prince renathal #fanfiction #wow fanfiction #world of warcraft #shadowlands #elisewin #the maw walker #nightborne #orgrimmar #wend in the shadows #slow burn romance #amnesia #sire denathrius #revendreth #venthyr

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